


your heart is too close

by incode



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Bulimia, Coitus Interruptus, Crying, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Making Out, Mental Illness, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Assault, Romance, Sensuality, getting better, safewording... kind of, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incode/pseuds/incode
Summary: Yuuri is learning to articulate, to trust and to heal.  (It occurs to Yuuri that Victor has never made him feel weak. He has always felt strong around him, lifted up by him. Victor never takes away his energy - he invigorates him, motivates him and sometimes lets him doubt but never lets him feel sorry for himself for long, given the chance to stop him. Yuuri can do everything on his own - Victor insists it, and Yuuri finds it in himself over and over again at his obstinance. The courage to push harder, go further, get over whatever is holding him back. He’s done it before. Yuuri traces Victor’s bottom lip with his index finger. He can do it again.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's this monstrosity, the fic that's been really killing me for a while. It's personal so I sincerely hope you like it or get something out of it, and I could use encouragement if you do
> 
> There's - I mean, warnings for lots of talk of disordered eating, binging/purging/restricting, descriptions of bodies. And a mention of a past sexual assault.  
> None of the above ^ is graphic  
> The first few tags of this make it seem like this thing is just horrible through and through, just totally unrewarding, but it's not. It's hopeful. I hope.
> 
>  
> 
> [kept looking forwards on paths sideways](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQb7WFNbo-c)

Rain last night. Yuuri can’t smell today but if he could he’d greedily inhale fresh-cut grass, the early-morning aroma of pansies.

He misses it. He wishes he could taste a full palate again. Sometimes when he’s back in town after months away and his mother makes a welcome-home meal, he thinks he can really feel the full body of the food, the undercurrents of specific flavors he remembers under the immediate _sweet_ or _savory_ \- but bile inevitably washes back, drowns it all out a mere hour later.

It’s a characteristically chilly day and a breeze is coming in off the river as he runs next to it, impeding his progress, threatening to blow him backward. He’s stomping into puddle after puddle and his sneakers are soaked through to his socks. His bones feel heavy, like they could collapse and make a crumpled pile out of him. He lifts each knee to where he should, stays light on his feet. He tells himself it’s more resistance, more work, better payoff. It will make him stronger. He’ll be strong.

Victor is still asleep when he gets home, which isn’t a surprise since it’s still dark. Yuuri steps into a shower made too hot - it turns his skin pink on contact. He stares at the wall, blinks. He feels empty, and it’s not just his stomach.

Last night. Victor had tried to touch him, then tried to hold him, but Yuuri had been in one of his moods. Ironically, guilt is what always stops him. He loves Victor so much but it comes with an indebtedness - and if Victor knew he had these habits he’d be crushed. All their hard work would be for naught. And anyway, Yuuri’d rather not have that conversation. He’d tried to have it once, years ago, with his mother, and it had been a mess. He can’t explain the compulsions associated with his illness or why they come and go as they please - nerves, he supposes, or maybe fear, of not being able to face the best of the best. Yuuri has never felt quite good enough; even on the cusp of greatness he’s still too clumsy, too eager, too soft.

Victor - Victor likes his softness, but Yuuri hates it. He hates that his body isn’t angular like Victor’s, that his mind is gooey and penetrable with anxieties that lodge in the mire and stick with him day in and day out. He hates that he can be made pliant - he doesn’t care much for the opinions of others, but he does wish he could figure out who he is and be content with it. Generally, he flounders between his few passions in a blur. The only place he’s ever felt as if he really fits is on the ice - and now, with Victor.

But as much as Victor insists it is, this doesn’t feel like a partnership. At times it’s easy to forget that they aren’t equals - when Victor drinks too much, when they wake up together in a country foreign to both of them and he gets to see him sleepy, hair mussed, reluctant to get up; sometimes Yuuri has to drag him out of bed. The moment they enter an arena, though, there’s a divide. Yuuri still wants to impress Victor, to be perfect - how can he be perfect if his body impedes his progress?

Yuuri suddenly feels very sick. The thing about purging - it makes you throw up. Not just when you want to, but at inopportune times later, when the throat becomes irritated all over again from the abuse. He takes a shaky breath, steps out on legs just as unsteady and sits down on the floor outside the tub, on his towel. Head in his hands, elbows on his knees, he tries to breathe slowly, inhale the steam fogging up the tiny bathroom, let it warm him from the inside out.

The wave of nausea subsides - it’s not like he’s had anything to eat, anyway. The bathroom is warm, comforting, surrounding him; the fog can be water, and if he tries, he can swim. He lets his eyes drift closed.

 

*

 

When he wakes up it’s so much colder. Yuuri shivers and rubs his eyes. Sitting up, he immediately wants to lie back down; the dizziness is all consuming, headache flaring behind his eyes. He stumbles upright with the assistance of the counter and fights a fresh towel into cooperating with his shaking hands. Another day. It’s raining again as he passes the window, coming down in sheets. He dresses in a pair of joggers and one of Victor’s hoodies before curling up in bed, wrapping himself up in the comforter and feeling safe, surrounded.

Victor stirs and turns over, weaseling his way into the nest Yuuri has made and wrapping an arm around his waist. He nuzzles the back of Yuuri’s neck and sighs happily against it, and Yuuri mumbles a good morning.

“Mm,” Victor says, sweet morning voice. “’Morning. Want to take the day off?”

Day off. Sounds nice. Yuuri wishes his mind would take one.

 

*

 

It’s the usual cycle - avoid, and when you absolutely can’t avoid, get rid of it as soon as possible - until they go shopping to pick out clothes for a television appearance. Victor loads Yuuri’s arms up with garments, and for a while Yuuri is having fun, laughing with him, glaring at questionable color options, enjoying Victor fussing over him. Like they would when he doesn’t happen to be smack-dab in the middle of a relapse.

It is an entirely different story when they get into the fitting rooms. Yuuri shrugs on the first jacket Victor had picked out for him, and the way it hangs off his shoulders doesn’t even fool him. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, he is cast into stark relief - nothing like his tiny, steamed-up bathroom at home, or the soft, forgiving, sort of otherworldly light of a hotel suite. He eyes himself angrily. He hadn’t thought he was down this much - he can’t feel it, can usually only feel the parts of himself he still wants _gone._

Now he realizes how much is already missing.

He grimaces, straightens out the collar before he steps out of his stall. Victor looks stunning in a deep green number but he takes one look at Yuuri coming up behind him in the mirror and his eyes widen, not happily. He whirls around and stands Yuuri in the three-way mirror, and Yuuri closes his eyes to gather himself for a moment, and he’s sure it looks like wincing but he thinks Victor is busy with his lapel.

“Well, we’ll have to have it taken in a bit,” Victor says, pushing the boxy jacket in at Yuuri’s waist. His touch burns even through the wool. “Or do we need to go down a size? I could swear you’ve lost weight.”

“Actually, I think this cut is just wrong,” Yuuri says softly. He pays their reflections the best smile he can muster - it’s not convincing. A stark realization - he’s getting closer and closer to the point where he can’t be put under his own spell, can’t wish it all away.

Victor frowns, still pawing at the clothes, but he tactfully changes the subject. “And mine? What do you think?”

“You look beautiful,” Yuuri breathes, relieved to be able to tell the truth. Yuuri grins as Victor blushes lightly - he likes catching him off guard like that, loves the way the soft pink paints over his cheeks and his eyes go swimmy when he looks at Yuuri. He turns and kisses Victor, a quick peck on the lips, still bold for Yuuri to initiate in public. “It looks really… European.”

Victor laughs. Yuuri memorizes it.

 

*

 

Shiver up his spine as Victor’s fingers walk up his hip, then spread out on his abdomen. It’s a touch so familiar and tender, but it still takes Yuuri’s breath away every time. Victor’s hands on his body, he can’t believe he’s this lucky, can’t believe he’s this _close -_

There’s a click. The light has come on, the bedside lamp with the wired switch. Yuuri gasps, yanks his t-shirt down without thinking, a movement that’s become second-nature over the years. “Victor!” he exclaims.

Victor blinks up at him from where he’s propped up on his elbow hovering near Yuuri’s hips, blanket over his head. “Yuuri?” he asks. He’s confused; Yuuri can see it plainly, in the way he tilts his head and widens his eyes in concern. Yuuri squirms under the scrutiny, turning to the side so he doesn’t have to look Victor in the eye. The pillow is cool beneath his left cheek.

“Can we turn it off again, please?” he asks, his voice meek. He puts a hand on Victor’s shoulder, connecting them - there’s so much distance in the hair’s breath between Victor’s chin and Yuuri’s stomach. He wants them joined, feeling his heart pang for Victor’s to latch to it, but he can’t bear to _see._

“I wanted to see you,” Victor says, and he kisses Yuuri’s ring. Yuuri holds for dear life to the comforter with his other hand, an anchor. “It occurred to me that I haven’t seen you like this for a very long time. The private showers, the light always off - why won’t you let me see you anymore, Yuuri?”

He closes his eyes, searches his head frantically for an answer. _Because you’d find me repulsive,_ his brain supplies helpfully. _Because I’ve been hurting myself, rather creatively, on and off for years, and it's been a stressful season and when I’m stressed out I do this and -_

_Because you’d be disappointed in me._

“Because I… I just don’t want to!” _Great. Excellent. How long did it take you to come up with that one, Katsuki?_

“I want to make it clear, before I say this, that we’re not going to now, not tonight. But, Yuuri - not five minutes ago, you _did_ want to. What changed?”

“Nothing,” Yuuri hisses. He hopes it indicates that he does _not_ want to talk about this. He turns onto his side, shoving Victor off; Victor scoots up the bed but leaves a few inches between them. Yuuri’s back is a wall.

“Yuuri,” Victor tries again. Yuuri is scowling at the wall opposite them.  The light is still on, making his head pound, or maybe it’s the hard set of his brow. “Yuuri, how can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“I don’t need your _help,”_ Yuuri spits, furious and insulted. He adjusts his shoulders angrily, if one can do such a thing angrily.

There’s a pause, during which Yuuri feels the distance between them stretch to its fullest point yet before snapping back sharply to hit him on the back of the neck where Victor tickles him with the pad of his thumb. Damn him for breaking down the wall, threatening destruction. This has worked on everyone else…

“That’s fair,” Victor says finally. “I can’t coach you in everything. But Yuuri,” and here Victor leans down to his shoulder blade, skates his hand over it and then presses his lips to it through the barrier of his t-shirt, “if I can’t be your coach, here, will you let me be your husband?”

Victor presses himself to Yuuri’s back, tight tight tight and it would suffocate if it were anybody but him. Anybody but Victor wouldn’t get this close - anybody but Victor wouldn’t have gotten away with three-quarters of the things he’s said. Even if Yuuri doesn’t tend to drop people without a second thought, Phichit has never had any qualms about doing it for him. But there is something about the way they fit, even splayed awkwardly like this, knobby top knee knocking back against lean thighs in the tangle of their legs, that makes Yuuri more prone to answer to him. Something about Victor opens him up, coaxes his heart out of the safety of his ribcage, makes it vulnerable to stabbings or perhaps being stepped on. Victor hasn’t done any of it yet, and all of him seems to _fit_. Victor fits.

“I’m tired,” Yuuri says truthfully, “can we talk tomorrow?"

“We can talk whenever you want,” Victor says, kissing his hair, “for as long as you want,” - his ear - “about whatever you want.” Yuuri punctuates it for him, turning over to press a kiss to his lips.

 

*

 

In the morning, sitting cross-legged and facing each other in bed, it’s hot cocoa Victor brought in - Yuuri is too sleepy to protest - and a story he’s never gotten all the way through, starting at the beginning, freshman year in Detroit. It takes a long time, with all the hesitating he does, but by the end of it he thinks he’s managed to get Victor to wrap his head around… most of it.

There’s a pause after the brunt of it, when Victor asks the question Yuuri can tell he’s been wanting to ask and that he himself has been trying to avoid - Victor isn’t stupid. “Yuuri, did someone…” he trails off, as if the idea is too large and too complicated and too horrible to get his tongue around.

“It was a long time ago,” Yuuri says quietly, and takes Victor’s hands in his. It’s a strange feeling, having to reassure someone else on this topic. He’s been numbing this over for years - but it’s all new to Victor. Yuuri smiles at him, fiddling idly with Victor’s ring. “I think I already had the beginnings, and I-” he allows himself a breath, traces his finger over Victor’s knuckle, “I think it made me feel so angry, so repulsed, that that feeling just made itself physical. That's the best way I can describe it. It was a reaction at first, a way to cleanse. Which is twisted, right?” Yuuri scoffs, suddenly embarrassed to put it all into words. But Victor hasn't passed judgement yet - his eyes are open wide not in pity but in understanding. Yuuri feels a single tear tracking down his cheek, and he does not sniffle though he wants to. “Eventually it became a way to deal with any stress. And it was a - it’s been a stressful few months.”

“Did you…” Victor’s eyes close. He takes a deep breath, collecting himself. “Do you need anything? From me?”

Yuuri can hear the implied question under the spoken one. He traces the slope of Victor’s cheek, skims the first lines coming in on his forehead. He has never been as confident in his own words as he is now. “You have never,” he starts, cupping Victor’s jaw, coaxing him to look at him, “ _never_ done anything to me that I haven’t been thrilled about. From that first kiss in China, from the first time we met - the time I remember, and the time I don’t,” he smiles as Victor chuckles, “I’ve wanted you. Whatever you’ve given me I’ve welcomed. With no regrets.”

Victor smiles, turns into Yuuri’s touch and kisses his palm. “I just - sometimes I can’t be touched, and sometimes I can’t eat, and I guess you deserve to know there are reasons for it.”

Victor makes a thoughtful noise. He covers Yuuri’s hand with his own and laces their fingers together. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You never do. But thank you for telling me,” he says, and closes the gap between them, kissing Yuuri gently. Yuuri swoons into it, his free hand slipping up to Victor’s shoulder. The joined hands rest in Victor’s lap, and Victor squeezes even as he takes Yuuri’s breath away.

“Sorry,” Victor says as he pulls away. “That probably wasn’t entirely appropriate.”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says quietly, because - it is. Victor’s touch calms him down, settles him. He finds now that he wants nothing more than to be close to him, and so he slumps forward, head on Victor’s shoulder. Victor wraps his arms about his waist and Yuuri settles into his lap, feeling warm, feeling - happy. Like he could eat breakfast.

 

*

 

Rain overnight again, and this time it’s a full-on storm, but in the morning it’s beautiful, a welcome grey sky, everything dew-painted, impressionist. Victor wakes him up early, looming over him in joggers and a quarter-zip - rubbing his eyes, Yuuri wants to laugh at how soccer dad he looks. “Let’s go for a walk,” Victor says, putting Yuuri’s glasses on for him. Yuuri grumbles but accepts the clothes Victor’s tossed onto him, leggings and a crewneck sweatshirt. His comfy clothes, the clothes he does ballet in.

Yuuri thinks himself somewhat groggy, but the fresh air hits him hard, clearing his sinuses and waking him up. Victor strides along beside him, holding his hand, and as they get to the bridge Yuuri finds himself selfishly happy that Victor hadn’t really had anything to return to in Russia after he’d retired and that they’d been able to settle down in Hasetsu. Yuuri doesn’t think he could stand to be far from Ice Castle or his family much more than he has to, these days.

Victor stretches and leans over the rail. Yuuri comes up beside him, rests his elbows there, looks outover the river. He doesn’t appreciate this view as much as he probably should. His childhood here often seems so distant now but watching this water run it all seems within reach, like he could reach out and touch something uncomplicated and hazy and warm. He looks to Victor, reaches out and touches him.

Victor turns to regard him, an amused question on his brow. “Thank you for - for everything,” Yuuri says, running his hand up and down Victor’s arm.

“My pleasure. What are we thanking me for?” Victor turns and leans back against the barrier, one knee bent to hook his foot into the bottom bar. He spreads his thighs to let Yuuri step between them as he comes around in front of him.

“Are you going to make me say it?” Yuuri asks. He puts a hand on Victor’s chest and sways into him, the cold breeze in stark contrast to their shared body heat. Victor chuckles.

“I’m afraid so, little star,” he says. He puts an arm around Yuuri and places his hand at the small of his back.

“Thank you - for -” Yuuri pauses, inhales, sharp bite of the crisp morning air. “For always believing in me. For being what I need, even when I don’t think it’s what I need.” He catches the smirk on Victor’s face, though it’s not unkind. “For marrying me.” He takes Victor’s hand and taps on his ring, then laces their fingers together, brings their joined hands to his own cheek. “For loving me so much.”

“Darling,” Victor says patiently, “none of those are things you will ever have to thank me for.”

“I know,” Yuuri says. “I want to. I never want to let you forget what you are to me.” He nuzzles into Victor’s neck and breathes him in. “Thank you for these past few years. They’ve meant a lot.”

Victor’s grip on him seems to tighten, pulling him closer. “They have. Did you forget what today is?”

Yuuri is confused for a moment, thinking Victor is changing the subject. And then he realizes - he’d lost track of the days, a blur of time since they’d gotten back home after the Four Continents, and now it is the first of March. Yuuri feels the tears reach his eyes too late - Victor’s thumb is already there to catch them, and he feels woefully inadequate.

“Some way to spend your first anniversary, huh?” Yuuri jokes, trying to alleviate his own crash in mood. He can’t believe he’s let Victor down so thoroughly.

But Victor just smiles at him, his expression open and reverent. “I wouldn’t spend it any other way,” he says, and Yuuri thinks that maybe he believes it.

 

*

 

Having their own home has its advantages. Chief among them, in Yuuri’s opinion, is the fact that they can laze around in bed from the early afternoon on and nobody will wonder where they are or come looking for them.

“You know,” Victor says, stirring Yuuri from his book, “We don’t have to go to Worlds.”

Yuuri studies him, shocked into silence for a moment. The curtains are drawn to block out what little sunlight is drizzling through the clouds outside, casting a single dark shadow over Victor’s face. He lays his book aside and takes off his glasses, too. “I - we’ve done so well this season,” he protests, flabbergasted. What would the press say if they dropped out for no reason? Yuuri would feel like the laughing stock of Japan all over again.

Victor hums. “I know. And that’s enough, you know. You never have to - I just thought, if you’re not feeling up to it. Everything can change so quickly.”

Yuuri has never been so stricken by the truth. But he is more determined, more alive, than he’s felt since they returned to Japan. “No,” he says, as sure as he’s ever been. He thinks of standing on the podiums at the Grand Prix final and at the Four Continents, hoisting his silver and his gold. How Victor had looked at him and only him the whole way through, not just after he’d won but at the practice sessions, in that private rink where it had just been them and the scrape of their blades on the ice, going over the same footwork again and again because Yuuri had insisted, because his drive to win demanded it. “No,” he repeats. “I want this.”

Victor smiles, an easy thing. “Okay,” he says, leaning over to kiss Yuuri’s cheek. “Whatever you want.” His lips trail down Yuuri’s jaw, finding the corner of his mouth. “I like it when you know what you want,” he breathes against him, and the vibrations of his voice travel down Yuuri’s throat to hit at the base of his spine.

He knows what he wants.

Yuuri tilts his head the inch necessary to take Victor’s lips with his own. The kiss is deep, unhurried, but heady, feeling Victor melt into him, feeling his own heart rip open and bleed back to him. Victor rolls them a bit to cover him and Yuuri paws at him desperately, absently trying to pull Victor closer even as Victor wraps his legs around Yuuri’s and presses them together from their knees to their chests. He breathes in as Yuuri sighs, parting only slightly to catch their breath, and Yuuri pushes Victor’s hair back from his forehead.

“I love you,” he mouths, unsure whether sound actually comes out. Victor grins anyway. He grinds his hips down and Yuuri’s mouth falls open for a moan - he lets his head tip back to the pillow, and soon feels Victor’s breath on his neck, then his lips, then his teeth, then his tongue. He hums softly as he sucks at the skin, leaving bruises in his wake as he trails closer to Yuuri’s shoulder.

He pulls away to pluck at the fabric of Yuuri’s sweatshirt. “What do you think, star?” he asks thoughtfully. There’s no pressure in it. And Yuuri knows it, and he knows - he knows what kind of man Victor is, that he’ll never want anything more than Yuuri can give.

He gently pushes up on Victor’s chest, pushes at him as they sit up. Yuuri tucks his fingers under the hem of his sweatshirt and takes a deep breath, and in one motion he lifts the garment up, anxious lectures of his own doing flooding him as he feels the cool air on his skin. He leans back, eyes shut tightly, as Victor looks him over. He doesn’t want to see Victor seeing him, the way his skin stretches more tightly over his ribs, the way his hipbones jut more insistently than usual. Seven pounds down and Yuuri’s body begins feeling like a foreign entity. He is not large to begin with, and after four it starts eating into muscle. His illness saps the strength from him, the power he’s used to in his thighs, the ability to rotate his core. His knees get knobby and his bones feel brittle, like a fall could break them. He hates that he does this, to himself but more importantly to those he loves, that he’s done this to _Victor -_

He gasps, drawn out of his thoughts by the touch of Victor’s hand on his stomach. He’s cold, and Yuuri shivers, opening his eyes to see Victor trailing his palm flat over Yuuri’s abdomen. He doesn’t look sad, doesn’t look angry. As his hand warms up, he places it gently at Yuuri’s flank and looks at him. Victor leans down to kiss him and Yuuri melts - Victor still wants to kiss him, even when he’s a mess like this. He smiles despite himself and Victor matches it - their lips turn up together, synchronized, as if they’ve been practicing the timing forever. Yuuri thinks that perhaps they have.

He puts his hands on Victor’s shoulders, massaging. This earns him a soft moan, and Yuuri grins - he was always an auditory person, gets off on the assurance that he’s pleasing Victor.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, frantically stroking Yuuri’s hair, “Yuuri, let me - just -” and he lies back, taking his shirt off as he goes. Yuuri crawls after him, straddling him letting his hands rove slowly over Victor’s chest.

He leans down and boldly flicks his tongue against one of Victor’s nipples, glancing up to watch Victor react - he does so beautifully as always, head thrown back, hands coming up to fist in Yuuri’s already mussed hair, and God, Yuuri has _missed_ this. Leaving the light on feels like stepping into the sun after a long winter - even Yuuri, with his tendency to sunburn, can appreciate the warmth it offers. The way Victor’s mouth parts on a broken moan as Yuuri nibbles softly on his sensitive skin.

Victor says his name again, and Yuuri feels it spark at the base of his spine but he ignores him and turns his attention to the other nipple, rolling the one he’s already made wet and hard between his thumb and forefinger as he pays the other the same treatment. Victor pants and hisses at him - Yuuri remembers, now, the way Victor likes the slight edge of pain Yuuri’s sharp teeth offer him. He’s been so passive these past few weeks, antsy since before Four Continents, letting Victor have him but never really participating in their lovemaking. It feels good to contribute again, to give something and get something back. Instant gratification, validation. Like the glory of winning, of landing every jump and spin, of stepping onto the ice to perform a victory lap after winning with a program you know deserved it, flawlessly executed. Victor’s body - he doesn’t have to think about it, just as he doesn’t have to think about skating. He steps into him and immediately remembers.

“Yuuri…” Victor warns, breathless, and he’s rolling his hips now, rocking between Yuuri and the bed. Yuuri lets him tug him up to kiss his lips again and Victor sighs, lashes fluttering against Yuuri’s cheekbones, and Yuuri is glad he’s already taken off his glasses because it means he can push his face against Victor’s, slot their noses together, so close and sloppy.

“Touch me, Victor, please,” he finds himself saying, needy against Victor’s soft lips.

“Of course, whatever you want, God, Yuuri, yes,” Victor babbles. He reaches between them to tug at Yuuri’s leggings and Yuuri kneels up to shove them down his thighs, past his knees, onto the floor. Settling above Victor again, sitting on his abdomen, he shifts his weight - he wonders if Victor notices a difference. And suddenly he feels like he is about to cry again, the idea of Victor seeing him like this and reacting so kindly, as if he still _wants_ him, almost too much.

But Victor is there with the pad of his thumb beneath his eye again, always so damn attentive, anticipatory, and it occurs to Yuuri as he feels Victor’s thumb lift the dampness from the corner of his eye that Victor has never made him feel weak. He has always felt strong around him, lifted up by him. Victor never takes away his energy - he invigorates him, motivates him and sometimes lets him doubt but never lets him feel sorry for himself for long, given the chance to stop him. Yuuri can do everything on his own - Victor insists it, and Yuuri finds it in himself over and over again at his obstinance. The courage to push harder, go further, get over whatever is holding him back. He’s done it before. Yuuri traces Victor’s bottom lip with his index finger. He can do it again.

“Come up here,” Victor says, and Yuuri is confused for a moment, then hesitant, but Victor joins both of Yuuri’s hands with his and tugs gently and Yuuri goes, scooching up to sit on his chest. Victor’s hands roam over Yuuri’s thighs, pushing under his underwear at the leg openings.

“Mm,” Victor breathes, his chest rising and falling gently as he shuts his eyes and feels over Yuuri’s legs and hips. Then he slides his hands out and up Yuuri’s belly, pushing his waistband down without preamble. Yuuri yelps, his mostly soft cock exposed to the cool air. Victor pushes it up against his hip with the heel of his hand, kneading the flesh into responding, clearly affected by watching his body stir under his touch. Yuuri moans, letting Victor play, letting him touch, feeling the familiar coil of arousal pang insistently in his gut. His stomach flutters, the same butterflies he’d gotten when he’d first seen Victor, when he’d first kissed him, and each time since. The way he’d fallen had been a sharp descent at first but now it’s a steady incline, and Yuuri finds a new way to love Victor every day, a new reason.

Going by the look on his face, he thinks maybe Victor is currently identifying a new bloom of them- those reasons - in Yuuri, too.

He moans, shifts his hips. Victor smiles up at him, closing his fist experimentally round Yuuri’s cock, now mostly hard. Victor is testing the weight of him in his hand, and then his other hand goes first to his mouth, spitting in his palm, and then replaces the other on Yuuri’s length. His dry hand goes over Yuuri’s hip again, pushing his trunks down over his ass to cover it with his palm, as he pumps him, hand working faster as the pace of Yuuri’s breathing quickens.

Yuuri whines and collapses forward, hands fisting in the bedspread as his eyes fall shut, and Victor takes immediate advantage of the shift in angle to wrap his lips around the tip of his cock. Yuuri shudders violently, crying out in surprise. His hips shove down into Victor with the sensation, and he mewls a shy apology, nervous to have taken too much too soon, but Victor just works his throat around him and accepts it gracefully, as he does all things. He slides both hands around to curl into the flesh of Yuuri’s bare thighs and encourage him into moving, and Yuuri can practically feel him smiling as he swallows him down far enough to press his lips to his base.

Victor holds him there, practically flush against his face, and Yuuri gasps with the sensation of his throat fluttering, tight and wet and hot and too much and _endless_. When Yuuri tries to rock back for some distance, Victor’s fingernails drag up over the curve of his ass and push him down by the hips. “Victor,” he pants, breathless; “Victor, I -”

He lets him go, not a moment too soon. Yuuri sighs with relief and rolls to the side, his hips twitching with the loss of orgasm. But this is too good, too addictive - Yuuri doesn’t want to give it up so fast. The haze of sex in the room is heavy as the afternoon falls into evening, and it’s comfortable, sleepy - the last few rays of winter sunlight pouring through the gap between the curtains flashes across Victor’s body as they move and adjust, illuminating the cut of his abdomen, the hollows of his hips. Yuuri studies him, hand on Victor’s cheek. Victor’s eyes are trained on him and he catches Yuuri’s gaze, and there’s a shock of electricity between them, then a moment of utter peace - everything slows. Yuuri’s heart still flutters dangerously and his stomach still flips and it’s agonizing, but he wants it, craves it. Victor once again grabs Yuuri’s hand, now on its way sliding up through his hair, and kisses his fingers, one by one, then back from the pinky to the index again.

“I love you,” Victor says, and his eyes are wet, glossed over with tears, and Yuuri wants to kiss him, kiss away all the hurt he’s passed off onto him - and so he tries, tongue flicking behind his teeth, pushing his nose up against him, his lips trailing over Victor’s sticky cheek as the tears fall freely anyway. He presses the same words back into his skin, hoping Victor will understand because he can’t speak.

Victor’s hands are drifting down again as they kiss, roaming over Yuuri’s body just like he always does. Yuuri suddenly remembers Victor’s pants and gets his hands deftly under their elastic waistband, and Victor jolts, moaning into Yuuri’s neck as Yuuri kisses along his brow and cups his ass. It’s funny - Yuuri had anticipated needing comfort, but he seems to be the one doing the coddling, Victor like putty in his hands, his touches sending shockwaves through him that Yuuri can practically feel reverberate back into his skin.

“Off,” Victor says, and Yuuri is only too happy to comply. He gets Victor’s sweats down to his knees and Victor kicks them the rest of the way off. Yuuri runs the back of his hand over his abdomen, watching with fascination the way Victor’s dick stirs just below.

Victor reaches back over his own shoulder and returns with a little bottle which he presses into Yuuri’s hand urgently. “Get me… get me ready,” he practically _begs,_ and Yuuri groans, powerless against it. He wastes no time coating his fingers and warming the lube by rubbing them together before he hoists Victor’s leg up with his arm. Victor bends his knee pliantly to help, and his toes graze Yuuri’s hip. Yuuri dips his finger between Victor’s legs and relishes his gasp, his head tipping forward to knock into Yuuri’s.

His breath is hot on Yuuri’s cheek as he works his fingers against him, and he lets out a low, shuddering moan as Yuuri finally gets a finger worked into him to the second knuckle. The angle is a little silly, but Yuuri takes his time, generously pouring more lube onto his hand a few minutes later, as he prepares Victor for the stretch of a third finger. He reinserts the two and scissors them back and forth, and Victor’s breath comes in quicker puffs on the shell of Yuuri’s ear before he growls and takes a bit of the lobe between his teeth. Yuuri’s rhythm falters and he sinks his third digit in before he’d strictly wanted to, but Victor opens beautifully for him, and he whines in Yuuri’s ear as Yuuri’s finger no doubt presses against the bud of his prostate.

Yuuri finds himself rubbing off against Victor’s thigh, unable to hold back any longer. “Like this?” he asks, eyes flicking up to search Victor’s face; he hefts Victor’s leg up a little higher. Victor responds by wrapping that leg around Yuuri’s waist and smiling at him, lazy, soft.

“Just like this,” he confirms, so confident. Yuuri lines himself up and pushes forward, and Victor’s expression only changes minutely - his body accepts Yuuri just as evenly as his mouth had and his eyes go wide and then soft, heavy-lidded in pleasure. His gaze is level, observing Yuuri passively as he gives a slow rock of his hips, then another, and steadily builds into a respectable rhythm, grunting quietly. Victor meets him halfway each time, lurching forward to let Yuuri get deeper. There’s not a ton of room, their bodies squeezed together and touching every inch of skin surface they can. Yuuri thinks - as he sees, in the indirect light, the way Victor tosses his head back in pleasure, his frizzed-out hair flipping - that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yuuri lets Victor’s leg go in favor of reaching around to squeeze at his backside. He loves Victor’s ass, his thighs, the full expanse of his back, the fine musculature of his lean frame. He kisses over Victor’s bicep and tricep, thinking of how he holds him, makes him feel so safe and protected.

Victor comes first, surprising them both. His semen spills thick on their stomachs, and his body spasms around Yuuri, forcing him to slow down and stagger through a few last erratic thrusts into the stifling heat.

His orgasm _shatters_ him - it’s the most extensive, full-bodied, spiritual thing, filling every sense he has to the brim and then fizzing them out again through his split nerves. His toes curl, and he and shoves up against Victor one more time, not elegantly. By the time it’s over, he feels empty, empty and thoroughly sated. His want is warmed over in an instant that seems to drag on forever.

He looks at Victor - the love is painted plainly on his face, his expression one of relaxed satisfaction and gratitude. Victor’s index finger tracks along Yuuri’s collarbone, and he smiles at him again - Yuuri can’t help leaning in to press his lips to his, and it’s chaste, pure; incredible, like sparks flying overhead when you first realize you love someone. But it’s Victor, and he’s his husband, and it’s like this every time, and Yuuri gets a lifetime of these kisses and every other sort of kiss he could ever need or demand. He’s more lucky than he’s ever imagined he could be.

Victor is still smiling when they pull away, and as his finger drifts up to trace Yuuri’s own lips Yuuri realizes he is smiling, too. It cracks into a full-on grin as Victor pushes on the pad of his bottom lip, and then Yuuri starts _laughing,_ joy wracking through him with the same force his orgasm had. Victor separates them, gets off the bed with a kiss, and before long he’s back with a damp cloth and a glass of water.

Yuuri gasps out of his giggle fit when Victor presses the cloth against his stomach, and he shivers. Victor’s got him on his back, and he coaxes Yuuri up to his elbows and tips the glass against his lips. The water is cool going down his throat, and Yuuri nods gratefully as Victor sets it on the nightstand and gets settled beside him in the bed.

There is a moment - just a moment - of utter silence, peace falling over them, before it bubbles up again and Yuuri starts laughing anew. Victor grumbles, turning over, pressing his face into Yuuri’s neck, blowing a raspberry against his soft, warm skin. Yuuri make a noise of assent, surprised into calming down. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, turning to press a closed-mouth kiss to the top of Victor’s head. “I just… I’m happy,” he says. He knows it’s simple but thinks maybe, this time, it doesn’t need elaboration.

Victor responds by blowing against his collar again. Yuuri assumes this means he agrees.

They lay like that for a while, comfortably naked and warm with each other, snoozing lightly. Outside, the sun sets fully, and Yuuri watches the progression of the shadow covering his body, covering Victor’s. They fit, Yuuri realizes. He fits here.

“Star?” Victor says quietly, as if he’s afraid to intrude on Yuuri’s thoughts. _Please, always interrupt my thoughts,_ Yuuri thinks briefly, before he hums in response.

Victor sits up a bit, traces Yuuri’s waist and up over the curve of his hip. He stares as he does so, and Yuuri feels less self-conscious about his body than he thinks he should. “I love you,” Victor says, a finality.

Yuuri smiles at him, covering his hand with his own and holding it where it rests at his thigh. He snuggles into his husband, who wraps his arm around his waist and holds him tightly as they fall asleep.

 

*

 

Eventually, he is just ready.

It’s a few months and a few dinner dates later, a few more bad meals at home. It’s more than a few mornings of regret over losing control the night before and desperate retching, trying to claw out of himself sick bathroom tile room swimming head-splitting light. It’s a bad year - he loses a few more pounds, much more than he should, down lower than he’d been the year of his senior debut. A child, really. He starts changing in bathroom stalls.

But it’s a year of Victor knowing, of the knowledge that if he isn’t just outside, he’s at home, _their_ home, the one they’ve built together and continue to build. It’s a year of not having to be totally alone.

And then, one day, he’s tired of it.

He’s lied to Victor, and he sees the pain in his eyes, and he goes into the bathroom and catches his own gaze in the mirror - sunken, dark circles beneath his eyes that go past exhaustion, and he knows he’s lied to himself, too. And he knows he deserves better.

Picking up the phone takes all of 30 seconds, in the end. Victor holds his hand, and though Yuuri thinks, after, that maybe he didn’t need to, he’s glad he did. He takes a deep breath, and Victor kisses him, proud, but not condescending.

There are a lot of people involved, a lot more people than Yuuri is used to letting in, but a lot of people who can relate, too. He goes to group therapy, because he’s too intimidated by sitting across from a stranger, at first. He’s cycled through a few SSRIs over the course of a year, until they finally find one that really alleviates his anxiety, his intrusive thoughts. His nutritionist - his favorite of his doctors - listens to him, shares the way she’d gotten into the habit of restricting, once upon a time. She’s a good role model, Yuuri decides, someone who overcame this.

Mainly, he learns that there is not really a cure, in the strictest sense. He’ll have to stick to his therapy, probably forever. He finds he’s all right with that - it’s not as daunting as he might have one day found it.

But, then again, he’s ready. He’s never been ready before.

 

*

 

After a breakthrough practice one evening, Victor asks him if he thinks he’s got one more season in him.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says between gulps of water, without hesitation. “At least.”

**Author's Note:**

> [talk to me about skating or headcanon with me or suggest fics or what have you](http://shakenhoney.tumblr.com/)


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